


Secret In My Heart

by ironbutterfly25



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Denial, F/M, Outdoor Sex, POV Solas, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Solas Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironbutterfly25/pseuds/ironbutterfly25
Summary: Desire is ruinous, more so for immortals.





	1. lussuria

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted this story under my other pseud, moving it now to my first penname.
> 
> Kindly read and review~

Solas has decided he is done making mistakes. He decides as he stares at her at the edge of the shivering crowd. She looks lost, even fearful — a child — she would always be in his eyes, but determination is burning in her.

He is done making mistakes but she is a chest full of surprises. She seeks his company, his advice - distracting him, enthralling him.

He wonders if the pull is caused by the  _anchor_  left by his orb, his magic, his power on her hand.

She is a complication, a wound that seems to fester but he can't imagine himself seeking a cure for. She is proven valuable, vital to his delayed plans. But he  _knows_ , the longer he lingers in her presence, the more dangerous it turns, desire grows, takes residence in himself when it should not.

And one day, he would wake to another mistake.

* * *

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation."

She is still looking at the breach, the scar on the sky, the threat to their lives.

And he is still looking at her, dark hair curling about her face, cheeks flushed, blue eyes shining, lips slightly apart — unknowing of his intentions. In this space and time where in he is most comfortable, most in control, most like himself, his whole body tingles to snatch her, tear at her in greed and deference and take a peek at every part of her.

Solas swallows, throat parched, unable to look away.

"You had sealed it with a gesture..." Her eyes shift to him, unseeing to who he really is, only seeing the helpful apostate giving her guidance, thrilling her with tales almost unimaginable - only seeing a  _friend_  - the word burns in his mind, ridiculing him, his own thoughts making a mockery of himself. He shakes them off. "And right then, I felt the whole world change..."

Her teeth bite into her bottom lip, light and unintentional, and he has half the mind to tell her to plainly stop.

Her merely breathing riles him up, so much, it nearly hurts.

"Felt the whole world change?", she says curious at his choice of words. The furrow in her brows means that he has said too much, showed his hand too soon and without further thinking, that he has done something foolish.

"A figure of speech.", he tries to cover it up. But she is smiling.

And she is so beautiful, surrounded with soft snow and warm yellow light.

"I'm aware of the metaphor. I'm more interested in 'felt'." An elaboration is what she wanted. A revelation he shall not divulge.

He has already said enough, disclose too much.

Evelyn Trevelyan, the dream that changed  _everything_.

And so his mouth remained shut.

* * *

She runs her palm over the large candles melting on his desk, expression unflinching as the flames tease her skin. She inspects the faded parchments scattered on the surface, fingers the edge of one, reads the forgotten content.

"I've never done anything like that before.", she starts - referring to the dream where in he wanted so much more, but never acted to satisfy an ounce of the feelings plaguing him. Her body leans over the desk, slightly so, enough to encourage the gears in his mind to turn and turn, well-oiled and eager.

Bent over under the torches' heat. Uncaring of the pairs of eyes peering over balconies.

Clothes torn here and there, scattered scraps of fabric on the stone floors, sweaty skin uncovered. Sighs and gasps bleeding over lips sliding against each other.

"Can we do that again?" Nothing is more dangerous than a seductress unaware of her craft.

He arranges himself in his seat, pretending to be well-mannered, hiding the telling stiffness in his breeches.

"Perhaps another time, Inquisitor."

Another time, when his mind could entertain another thought besides her bent over his desk - open and panting, delirious underneath his power.

* * *

She happens upon him at the rotunda, as she always does, occupying himself with the bare walls. She smells of sunlight, apples, and water lilies. She smells of  _life_ , fleeting and beautiful. His fingers tighten around the brush's handle, frustrated by his own eagerness to turn and see her. But he reins himself in... and  _waits_.

"We found an artifact.", she says, voice breathy with ill-concealed excitement. He acknowledges her arrival, finally. Her eyes are a brighter cerulean, skin made ripe and polished by the torches' lights. Brown hair, darker and richer and in tangles - his hands ache to reach out and unravel the strands. "To strengthen the Veil... I would have liked it if you were there with us.", she continues, unaware of his wandering eyes, appreciative and inappropriate. He has eluded her since their settlement in Skyhold. He can provide guidance and advice from afar without being a constant support in her expeditions, at least for now.

He has been troubled with thoughts, his dreams leaving him bothered and shuddering in both pressure and unexpected pleasure.

"You're a greater help than you know, Inquisitor." She smiles, pleased by his approval, almost shy as if there is a secret behind the glint in her eyes. "Where did you find it?" He asks, still on his wooden perch, looking down at her looking up to him. She shifts her weight from one foot then to the other, contemplates for a moment before she's climbing the ladder in order to get closer, yes,  _closer_.

"There's one at the Griffon Keep." Her gaze sweeps over the wall, taking in every image, analyzing and learning. "Can you tell me more of your journeys?" She asks, erasing an inch or two of space between them. Her warmth comes off in waves, comforting and distracting him at the same time. His breath is caught in his chest.

"I would be happy to share them all with you." Polite, measured pleasantry hides his brimming desire.

* * *

"She left." The spirit of compassion tells him in the dead of the night. "Something troubles her. Something. Sparks in her eyes, on her flesh, in her veins. Sparks turning into flames. She can't breathe. She can't. She's sad and angry and it's red and hot, eating her." The young man's head is bowed, the wide brim of his hat shielding his expression. "She left. I want to help. You can find her."

Solas finds himself leaving the tent, the camp, trudging on the mud and wet grass of the mire, watching the water, feels every ripple and the stirring of the undead. He doesn't wander out long - she stands by the beacon, watching the sway of the veilfire. The luminous light should make her look ghastly, but it bathes her gently instead, brightening striking features, shadowing flaws. Hair unbound being played with by the wind.

He searches for the trouble Cole has spoken of on her face, but all he can see is calm beauty. A beauty that roots him in place and makes the rest of the world fall away.

"Solas." Her voice flows and wraps around where he's most weak and vulnerable - his heart, his heart supposedly buried in impregnable walls and unbreakable spells.

"It is quite perilous for you to leave camp without a companion." He says and walks up to her. They look at the veilfire together, calming blue, burning but incapable of hurting.

"I thought Cole is with me." She creates distance between them, much to his surpirse and dismay, trails her fingers on the worn down stone pillar, traces the crevices, finds the rune they had earlier uncovered. She has such delicate hands, dainty and deadly with daggers and poison. He aches to touch her, feel those fingers curl, feel her skin break in sweat, spicy and sweet under his manipulations.

It has been a long time - an eternity.

He had touched her once, cradled the hand where a part of him and the whole world resides. Studied and inspected her - a bizzarre occurrence. What is she? What is she not?

Why must she enter his life now and not before? Not in the time where he couldn't care less about responsibilities. He had lost the boldness of his youth. And he needs it most in every single day since she came like a blizzard melting on his skin and seeping within him.

"I guess Cole knows." She says under her breath, almost sounding resigned. Her brows are furrowed, now he sees the trouble but he can't figure out the reason why.

"About?", he inquires, genuinely intending to help ease her worries. She steps forward, invades his space, places a hand on his shoulder, and presses a soft kiss on his mouth.

"This." The word is a sigh against his lips. Her fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic as if it pains her to do it... and  _not_  do it.

She is all that exists in that space and time.

And she breaks him inside where it matters the most, unlocks his cage with a brush of her lips, drags him out as if he's leashed to the softness of her mouth. He kisses her back without further more thought, chases her in that pinch in time when she's pulling away.

He wants.

He needs.

His teeth bite into the plumpness of her bottom lip, and she moans and whines and sinks in his arms. He has brought her in his embrace without being conscious of the action. Her taste continues to lull his senses. His hands move around her and on her, nails raking on fabric.

"Evelyn." He has pushed her against the cold pillar. And she's staring at his mouth, seemingly confused as to why he is not kissing her any longer. He has a neat list of reasons why pursuit of her is detrimental to his endeavor. He has one reason why pursuit of her is beneficial.

He'll die if he doesn't touch her again.

And so he does.

* * *

Only once.

His tongue dips into her parted lips, tasting and searching and committing nuances to memory. She gasps as if she's surprised by the invasion. She sighs as if she's in disbelief that they are kissing, that maybe they are dreaming. Maybe they are. Maybe. But her heat is real, too real, as their skins break in sweat.

One time is enough.

His body presses against hers. A groan is ripped from his throat as he feels her softness, seemingly infinite. His hand cups a clothed breast, supple in his palm, so full - spilling in between his fingers. Their clothing shall be discarded, hindrances annoying him.

He could give himself this.

Only once. One time is enough.

He is done making mistakes.

* * *

Top partly open, slopes of flesh inviting and waiting to be explored. Her breasts are heavy, begging to be played with, weighed and made pliable. His mouth falls on the curve of her neck, nipping hungrily as his hands press and test, fingers tweaking the angry and hardened peaks.

Her breaths come in short pants, her nails biting into his tunic, dragging him closer even when there is no space in between them.

He shall feast on her tonight since it is only once. He shall feast this one time.

His lips trace the lingering sweat on her collarbones, tongue leaving a wet trail down the valley of her body. It has been so long since he touched another, since he wanted another. Albeit, there is a difference. There is a  _craving_  within him. The hunger shall be appeased before the night is done.

It shall.

His lips wrap around a nipple, sucking and sending her moaning.

The strong desire shall be quenched.

* * *

She is exquisite under the moonlight, shrouded by mist, trying to conceal beauty from him. Her legs quiver as his calloused palms run the length of each one, trace tiny scars, familiarize himself with perfect flaws.

He parts her legs, scenting her arousal in the air surrounding them.

Should this drag and last? Or burn fast?

His teeth bite into the inside of her left thigh, her pulse quickens as his tongue laves the abused spot.

This could not last. It should not.

So he turns her away from him - surprisingly rough, urges her to hold onto the aged pillar, as his mouth open over the fine globes of her ass. His fingers bruising around her hips as he remains as the only rock keeping her upright. He breathes over her slick flesh, the wet heat from her disorienting him.

His tongue splits her open, spears into her dripping cunt.

She is ambrosia.

Warm and wanting, viscous on his lips, her taste enslaving him.

* * *

Eat.

Feed.

Gorge.

His fingers tease to breach but don't. The pads rub over her sensitized nerves as she tries not to scream, and wake the camp and the dead.

This could not last. It should not.

But he could live on her nectar alone and to her sounds, suppressed but no less than wanton. On her left hand, the anchor crackles, almost impatient, and he groans, feeling her cresting under his ministration.

His mouth tears into her, tongue torturing her slit and she continues to drip and drench his lips.

A beast roars deep inside of him —  _More_ , it says.  _Feast some more_. A once majestic beast unfed for ages made even more feral.

"Solas—", her fractured cry snatches his chains. He watches her fall, collapse in a boneless heap of sated want. She trembles against him, head on his hard and tensed shoulder, eyes half-lidded about to be pulled in a deep sleep. Her lips are tainted with her blood, from biting and trying to restrain herself. Her blood adds a tantalizing color to the plumpness of her mouth.

His fingers dip in between her legs, her whole body jerks and tightens, her hands grasping around his arms as she arches and cries in over-sensitivity. He keeps a hand tight against her heated core as the other releases his cock from its constraints.

He knows that she feels him throb against her lower back. He knows that she knows what should come next. He knows that he should just pull away and walk away. His mind could be wise. But his body could not.

His lips nip on the outer rim of her ear and she shivers in anticipation.

"We are not done, my heart.", he says in a voice nearly foreign, made strange by desire.

* * *

With an arm around her waist, he easily lifts her, the head of his cock drools over her entrance. The wait is maddening. She assists him inside, pries herself open, making herself vulnerable  _for him_.

He buries his face against the tumble of her hair, expression pained as inch after inch slides into her overwhelming warmth. She gasps in time with each push until she simply sags against him when he is fully seated, deep in her. Her insides shudder around him with every breath and feigned control is slipping off of his fingertips.

"Is this what you want?", he whispers to her in a tone bathed in lust. He wills her to answer and not to answer, knowing full well that any form of response from her will unmake him. She turns her head, neck straining as she tries to reach his lips with hers. He meets her mouth, kisses her fully and deeply. They can stay like that, locked together and kissing in the most sensual way.

But she grinds against him, making him hiss, making him involuntarily thrust.

"Yes... Please, Solas."

Her nails are digging into the dirt in the next second, he has pushed her on her hands and knees and wasted not another moment on taking her.

That is right —  _taking_.

Her body seems to open for him more with each push and pull, lesser resistance but no less than tight. She welcomes him, unknowing to who he really is. He is deceiving her, even more now that he is exploiting her lack of knowledge of the truth, even more that he basks in the glory of her affections.

It is wrong.

A sin.

But animals know nothing of sin.

And he is nothing but one in that moment, as he is lost in the ebb and flow of the ocean that is  _her_.

* * *

Scandalous sounds. Flesh slapping on flesh. Snapping continuously together in want.

A wolf taking liberties. A wolf unleashed howling to the moon.

She is the moon.

With her pale complexion, blemished with time and her humanity, but no less than captivating. She twists and archs and looks at him over her shoulder, glassy blue eyes clouded with pleasure and veiled with tears brought by even more pleasure. She pleads with only her gaze and he wants to hear her, watch those lips form words that is nearly fanatical, form words of reverence for him alone.

So selfish.

And yet he wants.

He should hear her beg and plead, loud and pained and mad with pleasure. He should hear her on the next—

There would be no next time. There should not be.

A reminder that turns his movements rabid.

He is bruising her, so deep inside, places untouched, not reached before and outside, every inch of her outside.

He is hurting her. But he couldn't ease his hold, lighten his touch, slow his thrusts.

And so they break.

* * *

He has taken. But feels more loss than gaining anything as he drags himself out and off of her with heavy limbs and a weary mind filled with conflicting thoughts.

He has eaten. But feels more hunger as he watches her lie limply on her side, drenched in sweat, panting and satiated, his seed pearling in her sore nether lips, pearling and pooling out.

Each of her movements is anticipated, leaden and her skin getting cold in each passing second. Her crystal blue eyes peek at him under the tangle of her dark mane, she is lovely covered in the marks of his hungry mouth and bruising fingers.

He tucks himself back in his breeches, still hard but unable to take more.

Her arm stretches out, fingers reaching for him.

But the deed is done.

And so he leaves.

* * *

_"Desire is the kind of thing that eats you and leaves you starving."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Until the next chapter~


	2. accidia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic for this franchise so thank you to every reader who showed their interest! It's greatly appreciated~

Fury.

A lashing out.

Shame.

A tiring game.

Evelyn is furious with him, as she should be, she had not dared step into the rotunda, a domain declared his in silence, for days. Days crawling into a week and  _weeks_. Her absence and elusiveness is greatly felt by him. He has no reason for his actions, no defense worth justifying. He might as well cease to exist.

The Inquisition is in tension, its inner circle against him. It could entirely be his imagination. Cassandra has not changed, heeding his advice on the matters of spirits and the Fade. Varric is the same, calls him 'Chuckles' without further thought, simply fond of him and views him as a friend. The ambassador and spymaster remain clueless... or so they seem.

And the weeks will soon crawl into months  _without her_.

* * *

Touch of brown on cream mixed with a shy of pink - a blend of colors resembling skin. A stroke of the brush there, down a slope, creating a curve. Each stroke a caress on an image unseen. The shade of her eyes will be tricky. Specks of gold in glasses of blue, irises blown and wide with pleasure.

His hand stops. Eyes on the silhouette he unconsciously painted. 

A caricature of the herald would not be out of place in the round room.

Though it would be bizarre if the image painted is of the Inquisitor glorious in her nudity.

With grudging hands, he proceeds to fill the wall with grim blackness.

* * *

He is not needed as her companion, so he wanders the premises of Skyhold, and even farther out, farther and away from the home he provided for her, away from the hurt he has caused her.

He tries to find comfort in ruins and dreams, tries to find comfort in his plans and the future it could bring.

 _"Solas?"_  Her voice was so small and vulnerable. Her body bare and bruised and beautiful. Her eyes shimmered with confusion and the birth of hurt. He pulled away and turned away even when her voice called out to him  _again_ , louder and fearful.

His name and her voice echo in the recesses of his mind, echoes - one sounding more accusing than the last.

When will he be done with  _regrets_?

* * *

Waterfalls that encompass mountains stand in the background, Solas holds and follows the hand locked in his, flawless and overly soft. His eyes trail the length of exposed skin, fascinated by the pull and fall of fabric. It is so thin beneath his scrutiny, as if an illusion...

The hand tugs,  _hurry_ , it says. He looks up, eyes sweeping over familiar surroundings, magic in shimmering castles, floating and playing and warring, magic in all living things, so bright and golden and white. The familiarity hurts his eyes, creates an ache in his heart - Arlathan.

The hand tugs,  _eyes on me_ , it says.

Evelyn stares at him with eyes so blue, the shade that is her shames the sky. Her hair, lustrous and thick, cascading in endless dark waves down her slender back, curled tips teasing her ankles. When has she grown it out to such length? Her gown clings on her body loosely, barely,  _dangerously_. Silverite clasps and belts doing a poor job on securing the attire. Flimsy clothing. Flimsy in his eyes and on his touch.

Seductive.

Her lips are kissed by the color of the dawn, so are her cheeks. She smiles when his fingers feel the fabric.

So beautiful.

Why must she enchant him so? She who has not even dallied in the magical arts...

Her palm rests upon the curve of his neck, he watches as her eyes study him, moving from his nose, his lips, his eyes, back again, her gaze brimming with affection. He pulls away as if he's been burned by her attention. Suddenly reminded of how  _undeserving_  he is of such a gaze. But she holds on. She pulls him close and kisses him, soft and brief, as if she has done the gesture countless of times in her life.

"Fen-" She starts, she breathes, she  _knows_.

He breaks away, stance rigid, features hardened. And glares at the  _creature_  before him.

Evelyn's image ripples but it doesn't fade, it doesn't show the truth. The lush surrounding him ripples and splinters, uncovering the remains of everything he once held dear.

She stays there, clothed in rich robes, skin pink, eyes speaking. Beyond lovely but a lie.

"You have no desire for me...", she -  _it_  says. Tone flat. But he hears  _her voice_ , hears her emotions, hears what could be going through her mind, her heart since that night. "Perhaps if I...", silken fabric falls to the dark ground until nothing is left on the imitation of her body but jewels of a forgotten time.

His breath catches at the sight, despite how wrong it should be. The demon senses his admiration, how it pleases him, and it steps forward.

"You are not suppose to be like this. You are a spirit of purpose.", he says as he steps back but still unable to avert his eyes. The demon parts its rosy lips and speaks, its voice now turned lyrical, its words seeping into his skin like poisoned water.

"You have twisted me,  _my friend_."

* * *

"I don't understand.", Compassion says in a voice burdened with confusion and affront. "I wanted to help. I woke you to help her,  _not hurt her_." Cole's face twists into something akin to disgust. His tear-stained eyes glaring at something far away, something only he could see. "I don't understand. I don't. Why did it turn wrong? She got hurt, still hurting, the hurt won't leave. I must do something. I must help. I must  _right_  the wrong." The young man's hands play with his daggers, contemplating, aching to sink those blades laden with toxin into something that would chase away the pain.

A dagger finds itself wedged in between the floorboards, sharpened blade goring until the wood is decorated with cuts and a gaping hole. Solas stands by the staircase, the tavern's noise floating and getting livelier than the beating of his heart.

The dagger scratches... more and more in a hand that is steady and deadly.

_"You have twisted me."_

A helpless and dangerous voice in his head, in his dream, in his reality.

A spirit turning into a demon.

Compassion turning to cruelty. 

Regrets towering behind his steps.

* * *

A creak on the stairs makes his skin crawl. He knows without seeing, knows with how his breath stutters whenever she is near by, knows with that scent and that aura and with  _his mark_  on her...

He wills himself to disperse into the shadows - a trick from his youth, a trick inapplicable to this day with his  _current_  state. He wills himself to stay where he stands, a mask plastered on his face.

"Inquisitor.", he greets, only his mouth moving. "Good evening."

"Hello.", she says with eyes shining as if they are filled with tears. She takes another step and stumbles, hands bracing in a motion that is lethargic, laughing when her balance is regained in an ungraceful manner.

He ought to help her up as she giggles on the stairs, face hidden in the disarray of her hair, shoulders shaking. Cole has left his trance and has crouched before her, watching her movements, listening to her thoughts.

"Come... join us downstairs.", she murmurs to the spirit as she tries to get back up on her feet.

"You are... everywhere. Scattered pieces like a broken vase. Your thoughts are loud but difficult to understand. Shouts and whispers. Whispers and shouts. What is-"

"There you are!", the proud mage from Tevinter walks up the stairs, all those metals on his clothes catching on the light, clinking and mocking. Fashion, he calls it, exquisite taste. "Have you hurt youself?" Solas watches as she is gathered in the arms of another. "Let me see that face, bruises on other places are easy to hide, you can't welcome nobles with a blackened eye. How dreadful."

She is limp like a doll. The pampered lord takes on her weight easily, his arms snaring around her in ways most familiar. Solas' stare hardens into a glare. 

"Hello, Solas.", Dorian acknowledges his presence as Evelyn is settled in his arms. She looks... comfortable. Unharmed and protected. The sights tugs at Solas' strings. "Our dear Inquisitor is taken down by three tankards of this tavern's awful swirl. This knowledge is dangerous as you can see and if it falls in the hands of the Venatori, then we are all doomed. Rained down with grenades made of the strongest liquors. The Inquisitor meeting her end through intoxication." Evelyn makes a disgruntled noise as Dorian finishes his colorful skit. The mage adjusts her in his arms. Solas can hear her mutter unintelligible words.

"She has threatened to throw up on me. Such vile threats.", Dorian moves towards the door before turning to Cole. "Won't you join us, Cole? Evelyn went up here to fetch you. Come join us for some fresh air." 

Solas watches them leave. He has not moved an inch nor utter a word. He watches as the door opens and a gentle wind rushes in along with the moonlight. He watches as she wraps her arms around another, pulls herself close. Her hair in lovely waves and tangles that brush tanned skin and hard muscles.

The door shuts close.

His eyes stop seeing but his mind wanders. 

The young lord is used to riches and fine things, only the resplendent and the exotic catches the eye of those of noble blood. Dorian will treat her right, provide her everything, shower her with jewels and gold that is not from a dream and lies.

When this is done, when Corypheus is gone, he can see them in a lavish estate, surrounded with children and magic and pride.

When this is done, when Solas is gone, he can see them living... for a time. Perhaps he could wait until they have withered... Perhaps when they have lived full lives and  _perished_... then the elimination of the Veil and its consequences would weigh on him less.

Perhaps.

Perhaps he will then live in a lesser tower of regrets.

* * *

He imagines her snapping, completely fed up. He imagines her rushing into the rotunda, a dagger in hand or hopefully an empty hand. He imagines a slap, a kiss, or both. He imagines her animated by her anger and her need for an explanation, her need to see him, talk to him, touch him again...

He imagines it will happen that day, or that night.

He imagines tomorrow, or a week from now.

He imagines.

And she continues to spite him with her silence.

* * *

Finally, Solas is summoned to her chambers in the middle of the night, in an hour reserved to lovers. He had half the mind to decline. But he owed her this, whatever she demands he shall grant.

Whatever she desires.

A well-placed knock on the door announces his arrival. He eyes the construction on going in the area. It is only a matter of time, Skyhold is thrumming with determination and purpose. He is pleased to see it utilized to its potential. He is pleased that she has found a dwelling within its walls strengthened by his spells. He is pleased he could give her shelter despite the extent of his intentions.

He hears her acknowledgement a second later and so he steps into her bed chamber.

She is in the process of dressing, the shift slipping on her frame a little too late, his eyes catch the glimpse of her breasts before they are covered. 

His thoughts immediately scramble.

"I apologize-" He means to turn his back to her, blood on his face, blood in forbidden places. 

"Don't." Her voice is cold and solid. So he regains his composure, business as usual. "You have nothing to apologize for. You've seen all of this before. You have nothing to apologize for  _at all_." An anger brews in him, at her tone, at her stance, at her own anger for him well-hidden in indifference.

"Inquisitor, I believe we should talk about what transpired at the mire-"

"I'm sorry, Solas.", she says with sincerity and innocence that leaves him confounded. His lips part to speak, shame creeps in his bones as he grasps on dead air. "I forced myself on you. I didn't mean to place a strain on our partnership." 

She walks over the royal red rug, a gift from a noble seeking her favor, his eyes admire her delicate ankles and the smooth skin of her exposed legs, the clothing barely concealing  _anything_. 

He strangles a growl in his throat, folds his hands at his back, neat and in control.

 _Stay_ , the wiser part of him says, berates him as if he is a mere mutt.

 _Take_ , the awakened part of him says, urges him to claim and be selfish beyond all reason.

He takes a few steps forward as a test, she doesn't waste time to slip away. She is poised as she walks towards her desk, busying her hands with missives.

"You well know that you did not forced yourself on me."

"It was not what you desired. Rather,  _I was not_." She turns to him, body leaning on the desk, suddenly restless. Fingers drumming over the edge as perfect teeth worry over dry lips. "It was under... the heat of the moment. I should have think it through before trying to bed my allies." 

Heat of the moment.

It is agitating - the idea that what happened between them could be easily brushed aside by her. But is that not for the best? Isn't that what he wanted?

"I apologize. I should have sorted this out with you sooner.", she adds without an ounce of pretense, always ready to carry every responsibility.

"It is I who should apologize, leaving and all and avoiding to have a word with you." 

An unrelenting quiet has settled over them. Too many words unspoken. Too many actions kept at bay.

But that is what  _pride_  does, creating wounds and leaving them to fester.

* * *

Solas stands outside her door for long minutes after the reconciliation, dissatisfaction coursing in his veins. 

_"I would like us to go back to the way we were. Tomorrow, we are to head out to the Emerald Graves. Would you join me?"_

_"Of course."_

He closes his eyes, sees himself not answering to her request, rather he takes long strides to where she stands. Lean and supple against that cluttered desk. He sees himself throwing caution to the wind. He sees her laid out on the hard surface or on the silken sheets. He sees different scenarios, complicating but no less than pleasing.

He takes steady steps down the stone staircase now. He heads not for his quarters but for the kitchen. Tea would keep him company tonight and chase the punishing dreams away.

* * *

The greenery is a welcome sight. Animals roam the area from harmless nugs to hungry wolves. He likes the feel of the grass beneath his bare feet, relishing the raw power of nature.

They have cleared a cave of great bears. He must admit, he is not used to having an accompanying mage. Dorian has all the finesse of a prepubescent child acting as if he has the knowledge of everything. His spells are excessive, wasted energy on each cast in order to make things look like they burn hotter when in fact it is one and the same. 

She is attuned to the young mage and his eagerness and his show of skills. She doesn't hesitate to run off, poisoned weapons drawn, confident that Lord Pavus has her back. 

"Do say a warning next time you wanted to take on gigantic spiders." Dorian makes a face at the sight of ichor on his shiny clothes. Evelyn only gives him a wide smile, hair sticking on her face, a blush on her cheeks. 

"We can wash off over there." She inclines her head towards the falls. 

They follow her lead to it.

Blackwall is silent next to him, adjusting the griffon helmet on his head, heavy armor stained with blood clanking with each step. Solas has observed him watching the Inquisitor closely.

So closely.

There is a telling fondness in the warrior's eyes.

* * *

"You have seen a great deal of battle.", he starts as they settle to rest by the silver falls. The warden relieves himself of his helmet, taking out cleaning tools for his weapon and shield. 

"We all have." 

"Not all, not like you. You live and breathe war. You understand it. It is home to you." Solas watches as Blackwall steals a glance at their companions by the flowing water, engrossed in coversation inside the barrier of a world that is only theirs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" The battle-hardened man turns to him, obviously longing to be engaged in talk with  _someone else_. 

"I intended no offense. We have both seen terrible things. We have watched death and destruction render that which we love unrecognizable..."

They both turn to where their savior is, oblivious to the watchful eyes and stormy hearts within her reach.

"It is calming to see something familiar in another." 

Competition was a vital part of his youth, of  _Fen'Harel's_. It rears its ugly head at the moment, disturbingly stealing his calm.

* * *

Evelyn almost gets blinded later that day, flanking a knight, trying to aid the warrior in their party. Her daggers failed to deal the death blow. The then only wounded knight turned his blade on her, pommel striking her down, sharpened edge slicing down her face.

It was Dorian who blasted the enemy away in the nick of time, saved her life with his fanciful spirit energy.

Her blood dripped from the potentially fatal wound, crimson droplets taunting. The sight alone  _blinded_  him, twisting his spells to tap on reserves he preferred not to use so casually. The Veil rippled with his anger, raw power in an invisible fist grinding bones and flesh on the unforgiving ground.

The earth rattled under the restrained display of heaven's wrath.

* * *

At camp, the incident burdens them. Blackwall has committed himself to a new cause, sharpening his blade to the point of unnecessity.

She soon steps out of the tent, Dorian trailing behind her, a bandage around her head. Solas is puzzled by the sight of the askew fabric, so loosely tied, the skin that peeks beneath is swollen - infected. 

"No one has eaten?", she asks pointing at the nug they are roasting, a little more on the fire and it will be nothing but charred inedible meat.

He pushes himself off of the tree he has been resting on. A long look is given before he is leading her away from their camp.

* * *

 "Sit.", he commands. And she remains in place, confused by the authority in his tone. She is supposed to be the authority, the one leading and commanding.

"Sit, Evelyn.", he repeats with tension stewing in the fibers of his being, his hands trying to divert his attention to adjusting his sleeves. Such impatience in him...

She heeds a moment later, situates herself on a smooth rock close to the river.

"Is Lord Pavus ignorant of any healing spells?", he asks as no time is wasted to rid her of the useless bandage.

"He knows how to heal it." Her response stills his hands. Questions forming at the tip of his tongue. Questions he already has answers to.

His eyes follow the length of the gash on her face, half an inch from the arc of her brow, fresh and deep, a little lower and her eye would have been taken out. His fingers hover over the bruises on her cheekbone caused by the sword's pommel. 

A disgruntled noise leaves him as he inspects. Her injuries irking him.

With a concentrated spell, he erases the blue and black and red marks on her face, the blood clots and the skin knits. She watches his expression as he tries hard not to touch her.

When it is done, he finds himself unable to move. Her eyes are too bright, too wistful. Her lips plump and inviting under the moonlight.

His dream is rebuilt with the rush of water nearby.

The real her is different with raggedness, roughened by the day's hardships. She smells of the heat of the sun and the freshness of the forest, so unlike the floral scents from her in that far-fetched reality.

One thing remains.

He longs for her still.

* * *

His hands catch hers and lock them in a tight hold before he succumbs to the pull of her lips. She struggles weakly, half-heartedly. She struggles pretending not to want him. But he could feel the beating of her heart against his chest, erratic and so in rhythm with his.

He snarls against her mouth when she tries to free herself. But he holds her in place.

He must control it, master these feelings haunting him. In order to do that, he must rule over her, not the other way around.

"Let me touch you.", she pleads against his lips. But he can't make himself relent.

And the seconds move agonizingly slow. He steals her breath with each kiss until she forcefully pulls away.

Her hand reaches for his face, he cages it with his in mid-air, and tries to lean in to kiss her again.

She breaks away completely this time.

Confused.

Fed up.

"I think... that I have given you enough time, Solas." She shudders with a deep breath, hands curled into tight fists at her sides, an incredulous look on her face. "It's either you desire this or you don't."

She has always made everything sound easy.

She has always made everything appear simple.

She has always made him  _reconsider_  when there should be none to think over.

His situation is akin to a losing battle.

"Evelyn..." 

She pushes him, a petulant child stomping away. He catches her by the elbow, bringing her back to him with a force that makes her lose footing. 

"This should not be encouraged.", he says that fact against her mouth and she sighs, so in need of him. 

"What is it?" She presses her body to his until there is no space left. "What is stopping you?"

Nothing.

Nothing should be stopping him from what he wants.

Her heat is melting his thoughts as his hands pull her in with eagerness and greed. He takes the chance to look into her eyes. The revelations almost slipping on his tongue. 

But he doesn't bother to entrust his secrets as he kisses her again, afraid of taking risks.

 _Tomorrow_ , he tells himself.

 _For her_ , he tells himself.

 _When the time is right_ , he tells himself.

* * *

_"One lie has the power to tarnish a thousand truths."_

 

 


End file.
